


Close Enough

by FabulaRasa



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-08
Updated: 2010-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:12:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So basically, John got to spend his vacation in the 1950s: guy stuff during the day, lots of ‎sex for him at nights."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Enough

_‎ Be of love a little more careful than of anything.  ‎  
‎-- e e cummings ‎_

John slammed his hand on the wall behind him and the metallic door slid shut, just in ‎time to muffle his voice.‎ ‎"Goddamnit, McKay, this stops right here, right now."‎

‎"Security cameras."‎

‎"What?"‎

He crossed his arms in the precise way that made John want to snap both of them off and ‎beat him with them. "All security cameras onboard are on active, may I remind you. ‎Standard on an Asgard ship." He punctuated it with a glance upwards, to the small black ‎eye that studied them balefully.‎

Shit. He stood there for a minute, collecting himself, watching the corrugated floor. ‎‎"Fine," he said through clenched teeth. "I can have this conversation standing right here. ‎I don't need to come over there and stomp on your oversized head to do it. I am done, do ‎you hear me? Enough. I am so fucking done. You are going to take your attitude and ‎shove it, are we clear?"‎

‎"First off, Major, where the hell do you think you get off, issuing orders to me? And ‎second—"‎

‎"It's Colonel, and you goddamn know it!"‎

Rodney's mouth slanted at an impossible angle. "My apologies, _Lieutenant_ Colonel. And ‎excuse me for pointing this out, your Colonel-ness, but you don't get to have any say ‎about my attitude, are we _clear_? Besides which, I don't have any attitude. I am simply ‎going about my business, trying my best to get things done around here and be of ‎assistance to the Daedalus team, and you, you, you're just pissy because we're in a ‎spaceship and you can't go shoot at something, or blow something up, so don't take it out ‎on me."‎

The three feet between them shimmered with John's glare, but he didn't move from his ‎spot by the door. In fact, he kept a careful hand on the wall, so he wouldn't be tempted ‎to launch himself across those three feet and perhaps accidentally rip McKay's throat ‎open.‎

‎"Fine," he ground out. "If that's how you want to do this. But from now until we get to ‎Atlantis, no matter what the problem is _here_, we will not take it out _there_. That is not ‎happening again, especially not in front of my men. Are we—" he closed his eyes briefly. ‎‎"Do we have an agreement?"‎

‎"Fine, yes, whatever." McKay crossed his arms. "Now just—" He licked his lips, and ‎when he spoke again, his voice was weary. "Just get out of my room now, can you? Some ‎of us have work to do."‎

John took his hand off the wall. Of the thousand and nine things he could say, not a one ‎of them would have done any good, so he hit the doorpad again and let it whoosh shut ‎behind him. He stood for a minute on the other side of the door, surveying the empty ‎corridor, wondering if it was an accident that McKay's quarters put him so far out of the ‎way, and unsure whether to congratulate Colonel Caldwell on his perception or slug him.‎

He made his way back to his own cramped quarters off the main axis and laid himself on ‎his bunk, fully dressed. It was no use pretending he was going to sleep tonight.‎

 

‎~‎

John took a deep swig of his beer and swallowed it like it didn't make his mouth explode. ‎After all those months without, the sharp musky taste of the hops, the way it expanded in ‎his mouth – it was almost too much. He didn't know whether to close his eyes and ‎quietly moan, or to splutter it out over top of the little table. But Rodney was knocking ‎his back like he hadn't noticed any change, so John took another swig and tipped his ‎chair back, surveying the bar. They were drinking in silence, because the bar was a little ‎too noisy for much of anything else. John brought his chair down with a thump.‎

‎"Hey, Rodney?"‎

‎"Yeah?" He was staring off in the direction of the pool tables, clearly engrossed in ‎something, head bopping slightly to the music.‎

‎"Did you used to come here often?"‎

‎"Huh?" The head swiveled back around to him, eyes over-bright with liquor, and how the ‎hell had that happened on two beers? Except he was aware the same thing was happening ‎to him, that ten months in the Pegasus galaxy without alcohol – well, without alcohol ‎except for that sip from Elizabeth's champagne, that time in the infirmary with the ‎bandage on his neck, back when they had thought the "Hurrah-We've-Cheated-Death" ‎celebration was going to be a rare event.‎

‎"I said, you used to come here often, or something?"‎

Rodney shrugged. "Off and on. I mean, it's right around the corner from my apartment, ‎and it's got decent music." ‎

‎"Uh-huh." John weighed saying more, but decided to save it.‎

‎"Oh, so, Iraq!" Rodney exclaimed, leaning intently over their table. "I spent the morning ‎catching up on current events, and wow, you people really know how to fuck things up, ‎don't you?"‎

‎"And by 'you people,' you mean. . ."‎

‎"Americans, of course. Naturally. What, do you people have the short term memory of ‎goldfish, or something? Does 'Vietnam' mean nothing to you?"‎

‎"Goldfish?"‎

Rodney waved his hands. "Yes, yes, it's scientifically documented that goldfish have the ‎shortest memory span of any vertebrate, is the joke there, which falls a little flat since I ‎have to explain it to you. It always used to bother me, when I was young, since fish were ‎the only pets we were allowed to have other than – well, that's another story, but it ‎always used to bother me, the way they spent their whole confined little lives in that tank, ‎and my God, can you imagine the boredom of it? Could you _comprehend_ it? And no way ‎even to kill yourself, really, other than slow starvation, which is, all things considered, an ‎awful way to go. But when I found that out, about their memory span, it made me feel ‎much better about the whole thing, because their life wasn't an endless round of sameness ‎after all – it was all new, all the time. You know, _oh, look! A plastic castle!_ And seven ‎seconds later, _look! A plastic castle!_" ‎

John grinned. "So I'm a goldfish."‎

‎"Well not you personally, obviously, just your people as a whole. I mean, thank God you ‎went to Atlantis, right?"‎

‎"Well, I guess," he said carefully. ‎

‎"Because if you'd stayed, you might have ended up deployed over there or something ‎ridiculous like that."‎

John finished off his beer. "Nah, no danger of that. Combat is where people get ‎promoted, and no way was any commander going to put me in the way of a promotion. I ‎was at McMurdo for a reason."‎

‎"Would you have gone?" Rodney was leaning forward now, arms propped on the table, ‎leg jiggling up and down. Alcohol apparently made him even more excitable, which was ‎kind of amusing, considering it was supposed to be a barbiturate. Made him a little glad ‎he hadn't been around for too much of Rodney-on-uppers during the Wraith siege, and a ‎little nervous they had let him build a nuclear bomb in that state.‎

‎"What do you mean, would I have gone? I'll let you in on a little secret, McKay, the ‎military takes a dim view of refusing orders. You don't get to choose to accept your ‎assignment. What am I, Maxwell Smart?"‎

‎"Oh, you are – you are such a dork. Hey, could we have another beer? Two, please?" He ‎waved at the passing bartender, who nodded curtly. "Oh, so, hey. How did things go at ‎the SGC today?"‎

‎"Fine. You know. Sorted through the stack of personnel files. Checked out my new ‎second." He made his voice as casual as he could on that one, though it was still a ‎pleasurable punch in the gut to say it. He had a second in command, now. He fought ‎down the smile that threatened to break out at the corner of his mouth and forced it into a ‎smirk.‎

‎"Yes, yes, it's been almost, oh, fifteen minutes since we last mentioned your promotion. ‎So once again, congratulations, Lieutenant Colonel."‎

John set to peeling his empty bottle's label. "Yeah. Thanks." He frowned at the bottle, ‎still twiddling it. "Just wish I hadn't had to murder my CO to get it." He had meant that ‎to sound more flippant, more hardened, and a little less anguished, but with any luck ‎Rodney hadn't picked up on it. Rodney didn't pick up on much, as this place evidenced. ‎But when he looked up Rodney's eyes were grave on him, and he was raising his beer ‎bottle.‎

‎"To Marshall Sumner," he said quietly.‎

John swallowed and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He clinked his empty bottle ‎against Rodney's half-full one. "Colonel Sumner," he said at last. They sat in silence for a ‎minute, watching the press of people at the bar, the flickering TV screen. At the jukebox, ‎someone had just put in Abba. _You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only se-ven-‎teen_, and if he closed his eyes he really was seventeen again, and the sand was warm ‎under the soles of his feet, the too-bright sun beating on his shaggy head, his life and the ‎possibility of getting laid still in front of him.‎

‎"Rodney."‎

‎"Yeah."‎

‎"You know this is a gay bar, right?"‎

‎"What?" His beer exited partly through his nose, and that was gratifying. "What are you ‎talking about?"‎

John cocked a brow at him. "McKay. Seriously. You had not noticed things like, oh say, ‎the lack of women here?"‎

‎"What? What the hell are you _talking_ about? This is a sports bar – look, see the TVs? ‎Sports? Sometimes guys just want to hang out together, all right? Jesus, what is it with ‎you military pervert types, making something out of everything – my God, you ‎Americans."‎

The bartender plunked down three Amstels. "One from the gentleman at the bar," he ‎said, jerking his head at the corner of the bar, where a man in a gray business suit nodded ‎pleasantly at John. He swung his head back around in time to see Rodney's open mouth.‎

‎"Oh my God oh my God," he was whispering. "I am not believing this." He shook his ‎head as if to clear it. "I mean, I used to come here all the time, and nobody ever bought ‎me _anything_."‎

‎"Well, you know what they say."‎

Rondey blinked at him. "What do they say?"‎

‎"In this situation? I have no idea." He leaned forward and fished his wallet out of his ‎back pocket. "I'm buying."‎

‎"Oh what, so now I'm your _date_?"‎

John grinned at him. "Look, you're letting me stay at your place. It's the least I can do. ‎I'm capable of a little gratitude, now and then, you know." He took a long swallow off ‎the new beer before setting it regretfully back down. "Come on, maybe we should head ‎on out."‎

‎"But I _like_ this place."‎

‎"Yeah, well, I like working for the US Air Force, so what can you do. Come on, on your ‎feet, soldier."‎

‎"Oh, fine." Rodney grabbed the jacket off the back of his chair. "By all means, let's run ‎like scared heterosexual rabbits, lest the little gay electrons start rubbing off on us. And ‎you know—"‎

‎"Excuse me." They turned at the same time to see Gray Business Suit standing behind ‎them, his hand extended to John. "I'm Charles."‎

John clasped his hand. "John. Look, my friend and I were just heading out."‎

‎"Oh, okay. Maybe I'll see you around here again?" His watch – gold, quietly tasteful – ‎flashed as he reached into his breast pocket and extracted a business card. "If you'd ever ‎like to go for a drink."‎

He hesitantly took the card. "Um, yeah. My—friend and I are pretty much homebodies."‎

‎"Oh, I see. My apologies, then."‎

‎"No problem. And thanks for the beer."‎

Charles nodded, cast a quick assessing glance at Rodney, and headed back to his place at ‎the bar. John landed a firm hand on Rodney's hyperventilating back and steered him out ‎the door to the car. ‎

‎~‎

‎"I'm just saying, is all. What, I'm so hideously unattractive that in four years of coming to ‎that bar at least once a week, no one ever, not once, bought me a drink? I mean, the ‎statistical improbability alone—"‎

‎"Did it ever occur to you that maybe it's not that you're so extraordinarily unattractive, ‎but that I'm extraordinarily attractive?"‎

Rodney shot him a look from behind the steering wheel. "Frankly, no."‎

‎"Okay, Rodney, whatever." He rubbed the back of his neck. "A, I can't believe we are ‎having this conversation, and B, people look for different things, you know? I was just ‎his type, I guess. And C, will you watch the goddamn road?"‎

‎"I am watching – will you stop telling me how to drive? This is just like the puddle ‎jumpers, with you all _oh-watch-out-Rodney_, and _oh-don't-crash-us-into-that-planet-‎Rodney_, and I for one—"‎

‎"Yeah, well in a puddle jumper my odds of fiery death are a lot smaller. Will you LOOK ‎OUT?"‎

Rodney snorted and swerved out of the way of oncoming traffic. "Please. Mr. I've-‎Never-Met-A-Suicide-Mission-I-Could-Sign-Up-For-Fast-Enough, don't preach to me ‎about avoiding a fiery death."‎

This struck John as somehow, really inappropriately and deeply funny, and he curled into ‎a silent chuckle, staring out at the dark rain-slicked street whooshing by. It also struck ‎him that maybe they were both a little drunker than they thought they were, and that ‎Rodney's driving was not so much hilarious as, possibly, felonious.‎

‎"How much further to your place?"‎

‎"Next block. What are you, hot for me now? Can't wait for the Hot Gay Rod of Love?"‎

This did nothing to help John with his laughing problem, and he doubled over into his ‎seat, his belly aching with it, and with the last ten days, or maybe the last ten years, hard ‎to say. And next thing he knew, the car made a sickeningly sharp lurch to the left, and the ‎gears were screeching as Rodney slammed them into park. ‎

‎"Ow. Oh. My neck! I think you broke my neck, McKay!"‎

‎"Oh please. Don't be such a baby."‎

If the whiplash hadn't jerked him out of his laughter, he would have been a goner at that ‎one, because apparently Rodney's hypocrisy was as boundless as it was unselfconscious. ‎Except instead of pissing John off, it made him want to ruffle his hair, so he threw him a ‎bone.‎

‎"Look, McKay. Did you ever stop to think that maybe you give off Deeply Heterosexual ‎Vibes, and that's why no one has ever put the moves on you? See, they were all just put ‎off by your incredibly strong manly mojo."‎

‎"My manly mojo?" Rodney arched a skeptical brow.‎

‎"Sure."‎

‎"Or," Rodney said, brightly. "It could just be that he was responding to your more ‎superficial attractiveness. Probably he was just looking for an easy lay, a quick one-off, ‎and he was intimidated by my obviously greater depths. Few people are up for the ‎challenge that is Rodney McKay."‎

John blinked at him. "That is officially the last time I ever try to make you feel better." ‎He pointed his finger in baleful warning. "Let me tell you something. Blaming the victim ‎is never the way to go."‎

Rodney threw the keys at him. "Shut up and get in the house, slut."‎

‎~‎

Rodney's sofa had proved surprisingly comfortable. Not that he should have been ‎surprised – the man was a sybarite in all else, so why not in his furniture? It was soft and ‎deep, with a high percentage of down, he suspected, and he had slept better in the last ‎five days on it than he had in the last ten months in Atlantis. Or maybe it was the way he ‎was slowly relaxing. Sure, Earth might be in jeopardy, but for fourteen days, he didn't ‎have to be the one who knew about it. He didn't have to be the one awakened in the ‎middle of the night to deal with it. He could be the guy who got drunk and ordered pizza ‎and watched Blazing Saddles with his geeky buddy who insisted on saying all the lines in ‎stupid voices.‎

The morning after his promotion, his shower had been interrupted by Rodney jerking ‎back the curtain and shouting, "The sheriff is a Ni. . .BRASKAN!" and cackling wildly ‎before John even had a chance to say "hey!" and jerk the curtain closed himself. He could ‎hear Rodney intoning, molto basso, "His job to offer battle, to bad men near and f-a-a-r," ‎from the kitchen, and was only mollified when he discovered that Rodney had driven ‎around the corner to the donut shop for eclairs and crullers. ‎

The first day, while Elizabeth had spent the day wrangling the top brass (and he had ‎some idea of just how much influence she must have had to peddle to get him that ‎promotion, and just how much she never wanted him to know that) had been the day ‎they launched Operation Retrive Rodney's Cat. ORRC had turned out to be only ‎moderately successful. The day after their arrival, Rodney had knocked on his neighbor's ‎door, bouncing on the balls of his feet.‎

‎"Yes?" his neighbor had said, not opening her door all the way.‎

‎"Hi, I'm Rodney—Rodney McKay?" And when she had still looked blank, he had ‎offered, "you have my cat?"‎

‎"Oh, right," she had said, chewing on her lip. "Well. . . she's sleeping right now." And ‎then she had shut the door in his face, and that, according to Rodney, had been the end ‎of Round One. ‎

For Round Two on the following day, he had enlisted John's help. "And what exactly am ‎I supposed to do here?"‎

‎"Be charming. Charm her. You know, do your thing."‎

‎"My thing? And while I'm charming her, you'll be doing what? Diving under her door ‎and throwing a blanket over your cat?"‎

‎"If I have to," Rodney said grimly. So they had knocked, and the door had opened only ‎a fraction, and Rodney had elbowed him in the back, pushing him forward.‎

‎"Hi," he had said, affecting ease. "I'm John Sheppard. I'm—" a burst of inspiration – ‎‎"your new neighbor." And then he had lit the slow megawatt smile, and what do you ‎know, that door had opened quite a bit wider. ‎

‎"Oh," she said. "I'm Elise."‎

‎"Elise." He stuck out his hand. "Pleased to meet you." He cast a glance at Rodney ‎nervously hunched on the stair landing, where he had retreated to be out of sight. "I'm ‎uh, going to be sub-letting Rodney's place, upstairs."‎

She nodded, smiling back at him. "Oh, that's great. It will be good to have some new ‎faces around. Are you new to Colorado Springs?"‎

‎"Um, kinda. Well, not really. I've been. . . in and out." And then, in even more brilliant ‎inspiration—"I'm a Colonel in the Air Force." The door had opened all the way and ‎Elise's smile had dialed up to genuinely warm, and half an hour later, he was pushing ‎back Rodney's door to deposit on the sofa one rather huffy and ungrateful cat, who had ‎had the bad manners to claw him on the stairs.‎

‎"Here. Take your Smelly Cat of Death."‎

‎"Maggie!" Rodney had crooned in delight, and John had watched, hovering somewhere ‎between sickened and amused, as Rodney nuzzled and scratched and squeezed and ‎kissed the apparently indifferent animal.‎

‎"Well, don't get too excited. She's just visiting. I worked out a joint custody arrangement ‎for the next fourteen days – you can have him—"‎

‎"Her."‎

‎"Whatever. You can have it from 9 til 5:30, but when she gets back from work, she ‎expects the cat to be in her apartment waiting for her. Key will be under the mat, you are ‎not to touch any of her things, or feed the cat any food."‎

Rodney looked up from what John could only call making out with his cat. "What?" His ‎voice was expressive of deepest horror. "I can't _feed_ her?"‎

‎"That was the deal. I guess, you know, bonding issues."‎

‎"That _bitch_."‎

‎"That was the deal I got. Now I'm going to go take another shower." He stuck his head ‎back around the corner. "I always thought that people who name their pets human names ‎were kinda weird."‎

‎"It's short for Magnificat," Rodney retorted, burrowing his face into the cat's capacious ‎belly.‎

John had just rolled his eyes. Never would he tell Rodney that the look on his face had ‎been worth every bit of schmoozing he had had to do downstairs.‎

‎~‎

So yes, the sofa was comfortable, but tonight sleep was eluding him. He tossed and ‎turned on it, but tonight its softness just irritated him, and he found himself longing for ‎the unforgiving mattresses of Atlantis. Those Ancients must have had incredible posture.‎

He closed his eyes and willed the thoughts away. Maybe it had been that bar. Maybe it ‎had been the conversation afterward. Although it had been a pleasure to witness a ‎patented McKay freak-out that did not involve evil space vampires or nuclear explosions ‎or lack of oxygen or. . oh, any number of things. Or maybe – maybe it had been Charles, ‎his grip firm and pleasant, his eyes friendly, not the slightest bit of shame in them, and ‎how the fuck did he manage that?‎

It had been years since he had even thought about shit like that. More years than he could ‎count, although he knew that if he thought about it, he could count them. He was just ‎refusing to. And it wasn't like it had been a big deal, or a big part of his life, or anything. ‎He hadn't even done it more than three or four – well, maybe more, but he hadn't been ‎counting. Not so many times, was the point. ‎

But he knew the drill. He knew how you slipped into the back of a bar so the light never ‎fell on you, how you quietly sipped your beer, not even looking around, and after a while, ‎maybe, someone would slide into the chair opposite you. Or maybe not, and you went ‎home. But if it did happen, he knew how you rose nonchalantly, making your way to the ‎bathrooms. He knew how you cut the lights, how you ducked into the nearest stall, how ‎you leaned against the wall, waiting for the footsteps to come join you. He knew that it ‎was okay to grip the guy's head while you came in his mouth, to let your nails dig in. He ‎knew how to drop to his knees and bring the other guy off fast and hard, no mess, no ‎wasted time. Then a quick zip back up, a quick rinse of your hands in the bathroom sink, ‎and you walked out, never a backward look.‎

It wasn't like it had been a big deal.‎

Lots of guys on the bases had done it. It was what you did, when your own hand wasn't ‎enough, and you weren't such a lowlife as to go to a prostitute, or such a scumbag as to ‎pick up a woman at a yuppie bar and use her that way. Other guys were what you used. ‎Not a big deal at all. It was the unspoken code, in the service, the gulf between that, and ‎being gay. Hell, he would be willing to bet that two-thirds of the Joint Chiefs, if not ‎more, had had their cocks sucked in off-base men's rooms, at one point or another. It ‎didn't make you. . . it didn't make you what that guy at the bar had clearly thought he ‎was.‎

He shifted and squirmed and weighed the etiquette of jacking off on another guy's sofa. ‎Rodney slept like the dead, though. Maybe the bathroom? He sighed and swung his legs ‎off the side of the sofa, seeing no help for it, when he heard the creak of Rodney's door. ‎Hell. Now he would have to wait for Rodney to piss, or whatever it was he was going to ‎do. He hoped to God it was just piss, because Rodney was a pretty tightly-wound guy, ‎and he had noticed it seemed to take him a long time in the bathroom, after morning ‎coffee.‎

But no, Rodney was shuffling out to the living room, on his way to the kitchen, and he ‎stopped when he saw John sitting up.‎

‎"Hey," he said, voice sleep-fuzzed. "Everything okay?"‎

‎"Yeah. Just—" He was searching for the end of the sentence that would not be "about to ‎jack off" when Rodney came and flopped beside him on the sofa. ‎

‎"Me too," he said. "It's the barometric pressure. I never can sleep when there are radical ‎shifts in barometric pressure."‎

John felt the smile tug at him. "You are such a princess."‎

Rodney snorted. "Bite me. Is this about the bar? I told you, I swear I didn't know."‎

He let the smile deepen. "Yeah, that much was evident. Don't worry about it. I think my ‎heterosexuality will survive the assault."‎

‎"I'm sure it will." He could hear the wry in Rodney's voice, even in the dark. "God, I ‎must be a real idiot, not to have noticed in four years."‎

‎"Nah. I think oblivious is the word you're looking for."‎

‎"Possibly. But I know plenty of gay people." He paused. "I'm sure I must."‎

‎"That's very enlightened of you, Rodney."‎

‎"Hey, I'm enlightened!"‎

‎"Yeah, you're a regular Voltaire."‎

John ducked the pillow aimed at him. "You know, that really pisses me off about you," ‎Rodney mused. "Making a joke like that, which is, all things considered, not a bad one. It ‎pisses me off, that you don't make those kinds of jokes in front of people. Because oh, ‎hey, they might catch on."‎

John toed the pillow that had tumbled to the floor. "Here's another military secret, ‎Rodney. In general, Marines do not find Voltaire jokes funny."‎

‎"Yes." Rodney scratched at his hair, scrubbing it, and cocked his head as if to get a better ‎look at John. "I do get that. But it still pisses me off." He tilted his head the other way, ‎and the moonlight – or the streetlight – caught his profile. "By the way, I'm over getting ‎snubbed by the hot gay guy. Just so you know. I won't hold it against you."‎

‎"That's big of you."‎

‎"It's not like I'm some rampaging homophobe, you know. I mean. . ." he raised his chin ‎and cut his eyes at John with a ridiculous smirk. "I'll have you know, I am not without ‎some experience myself."‎

‎"McKay. Are you trying to look worldly? Because it just makes you look smug."‎

‎"Smug is my default position. And I _am_ worldly!"‎

‎"Oh, really."‎

‎"Oh yes. In grad school, I had this undergrad assistant, and one night he got very drunk ‎and grateful – well to be honest I think he had a mild case of hero-worship – and next ‎thing I know he's down on his knees practically pulling my pants off, and wow, he knew ‎what he was doing. So I let him blow me, because I ask you, who is ever going to say no ‎to a blow job, and plus, I was pretty drunk. It was my birthday party, and who says no to ‎a blow job on their birthday, especially? Or maybe it was my roommate's birthday, I'm ‎not sure. Actually, I wish I remembered more of it other than that it was pretty damn ‎amazing. But then I passed out, so for all I know Ming wildly sodomized me. At least he ‎had the decency to put my clothes back on, is all I can say. You know, it's probably a ‎good thing I passed out – if I'd been conscious, he would certainly have expected me to ‎reciprocate, and that might have been more than I could deal with."‎

‎"Wow."‎

‎"Which part?"‎

‎"That was wow as in, wow you really _are_ all about the over-share."‎

‎"Oh, shut up."‎

‎"And also, what is it with you and Asians? First Ming, then Miko. . . you're like Asian ‎Sex Kryptonite. They can't resist. Remind me never to go to China with you."‎

‎"Now who's being enlightened? I can't help it if I am irresistible to the brilliant. If that ‎guy in the bar had been Asian, I would have completely owned you with a p-w-n."‎

John let his head fall back against the sofa, laughing soft and low. "You are such a dork, ‎McKay. You are the dorkiest dork ever."‎

‎"Bite me."‎

‎"Tell you what." John landed a light hand on Rodney's knee. "Tomorrow night, we can ‎go to the Chinatown gay bars and you can show me your moxie." ‎

‎"Please. This is Colorado Springs. Non-white people are barely allowed entry into the city ‎limits, unless it's to work construction." He sighed. "I meant to go get something to ‎drink, but I never made it to the kitchen. And now I'm not thirsty anymore. Actually, ‎now I'm wishing I could stop thinking about that blow job." He leaned his head back on ‎the sofa and closed his eyes. "That's what we need. Blow jobs. We need to remember to ‎pick some of those up from the store."‎

John shifted, trying to focus on the arc of light from the kitchen and not the tightening in ‎his groin. The minute he had suggested midnight-jerk-off-in-the-bathroom to his dick, it ‎had been totally on board. And somehow, it had never got off board, even when McKay ‎had sat down next to him. Especially when McKay had sat down next to him, but he ‎wasn't going there. The dick wants what it wants, and he knew better than to inquire too ‎closely into what it tended to want. And McKay was still not shutting up.‎

‎"So how long has it been, since your last blow job? I mean, I know there was the whole ‎ill-advised evil alien priestess thing, and we won't even open that can of worms, but does ‎that even count? I mean, I'm guessing there was a limit to how. . . physical. . . an ‎Ascended Ancient could be, in that respect?"‎

John smirked. "Rodney. Are you asking me to kiss and tell?"‎

He waved his hand. "Of course I am. Look, of the two of us, you're the one who's had ‎the most recent sex, so, spill. Was she any good? Was it all just moonbeams and white ‎lights and, you know, warm floaty sensations, or was there actually some sucking and ‎licking in there? Kissing? Tonguing? Rimming optional, of course."‎

John choked and dug his fingers into the blanket he was balling up in front of him. ‎‎"Jesus, McKay! Give a guy some warning."‎

‎"Please. Isn't this the stuff you military jocks talk about all the time?"‎

‎"Why, yes, Rodney. Yes, it is. On the _Spice_ Channel, what the hell is wrong with you? ‎And also," he clutched the blanket a little more firmly to his lap, "I would appreciate it if ‎we could stop talking about sex."‎

‎"Why? Who doesn't want to talk about sex?"‎

‎"_I_ don't want to talk about sex! Just. . please." He closed his eyes and ground his teeth ‎together, trying to think of something, anything to dump metaphorical cold water on his ‎embarrassing hard-on. Jerking off on another's guy's sofa might be a gray area, etiquette-‎wise, but sporting a raging stiffie while on said sofa with said guy? Not cool. ‎

Unfortunately for him, Rodney chose this moment to develop perception. "Oh," he said, ‎in his oh-I-get-it-now sort of voice, and John didn't have to open his eyes to know ‎exactly what Rodney's face looked like. ‎

‎"Yeah, oh," he said. "Now let's all just get some sleep, shall we?"‎

‎"Oh. Um." He could hear Rodney's fingers tap-tap against the back of the sofa. "Listen, I ‎could run to the all-night market on the corner."‎

‎"What? What the hell for?"‎

‎"Well. Not really for anything. I mean, I could get something if you wanted me to. Ho-‎hos? Chocolate milk? Beef jerky?" He chortled at his own pun, and John wondered what ‎the rules of etiquette had to say about decking your host on his own sofa. "Sorry, sorry. ‎Really, I was thinking more along the lines of, maybe I should duck out of the house for a ‎little bit. In case you wanted some privacy."‎

That brought his head up. "Rodney. You are not leaving your house at two in the morning ‎so I can. . . just, no. Just, please, can we forget about it?"‎

‎"You could go into the bathroom and I could pretend not to know what you were—"‎

‎"Rodney!"‎

‎"Sorry, sorry. Some people are so touchy." There was a moment's pause. "I don't know ‎how you stand it. Me, I have to jerk off every day, at least. Flossing, maybe on a good ‎day, but jerking off? I just have to, I can't imagine starting the day without it. Sometimes ‎going to bed, too. You must be in agony, if you've been trying all week not to. Have you ‎been trying all week not to? Because I am completely cool with it, it's not like, when I ‎have people over, that I hang a sign on the front door that says _no masturbating allowed_ – ‎not that I have houseguests that often. Well, ever, really. Although once—"‎

‎"Rodney." He gritted his teeth. "You are not helping."‎

‎"Sorry." He subsided again, and again John thought he might just get up and finally, ‎finally leave him alone, but when he spoke next his voice was entirely different. "Or. . . I ‎could just do this." And with that, his hand landed squarely on the part of the blanket ‎that covered his hard-on, cupping him firmly through it, and holy holy shit.‎

He didn't move, didn't dare breathe. They just stayed like that, for what felt like fifteen ‎minutes but was doubtless only a few seconds. His swallow sounded too loud in the ‎room. "Rodney. What are you doing."‎

‎"Waiting for you to hit me?"‎

Another pause, and still Rodney's hand was firm and warm on his dick, though ‎motionless, and apparently his dick had decided this was just great, thank you for inviting ‎me, I'm so happy to be here, because it gave a twitch up into the warm hand, hot even ‎through the blanket.‎

‎"And yet," said Rodney. "You don't seem to be."‎

‎"No," John agreed, mouth desert-dry. "I don't seem to be."‎

They sat in more silence, until John couldn't take it anymore. "Jesus," he whispered. "Just ‎do something, I can't take it."‎

‎"Yeah, okay," Rodney whispered back, voice just as dry, and he flung off the blanket ‎and plunged his hand into the gaping boxers, and oh. John's head hit the back of the sofa ‎as Rodney's hand closed around his shaft, pulling a bit tentatively.‎

‎"No clue here, really," Rodney was saying softly, into the space beside his head.‎

‎"Well you—oh God – practice twice a day—I should think you'd—oh yes. . ." He gave ‎up on speech as Rodney picked up both force and velocity, and wham, just like that he ‎was hit with the image of Rodney jacking himself. Rodney, lying on his bed, covers ‎kicked down, broad hands and thick arms pumping his own dick, mouth hanging open ‎slightly, eyes tight with pleasure, left hand cupping his balls, maybe squeezing a bit, ‎Rodney fucking his own hand. . . "_Fuck_," he said aloud, and spilled over Rodney's hand ‎in long lazy jets that made his spine curl forward and stung the back of his eyes.‎

He was still regaining air when he felt Rodney slipping off his boxers, leading his hand to ‎his crotch, and man, he was hard. John's eyes snapped back open to see, and Rodney – ‎Rodney was a sight, flushed and panting and thick red dick sticking straight out, already ‎a little slicked at the tip, and Jesus, had giving him a hand job turned him on that much? ‎

‎"Me now, please," he was panting, and John pulled his hand away.‎

‎"Uh-uh," he said.‎

‎"What, what the hell do you—" But Rodney's protest stilled as John slid to his knees, ‎scooted forward, and dropped his head down in his lap. "Oh. Oh yes, oh God," he ‎moaned, his dick making blind stabs upwards to his mouth, and John considered teasing ‎him a bit, considered doing something artful, but Rodney was a mess, he was so close he ‎was probably in pain, and in the end he decided to go with what he knew how to do, ‎which was eat dick. ‎

‎"Oh, _God_," Rodney yelped, his whole body jerking so hard John had to still him with a ‎hand on his hip, and wow, Rodney really had no idea how to do this, because he was ‎pumping up, basically fucking his mouth, and though this should have pissed John off it ‎was somehow the hottest thing he'd ever felt. So he dug his fingers into Rodney's hips a ‎little harder and swallowed down a little more firmly, burrowing his chin into Rodney's ‎balls, and he had time to register no more than _soft_ and _musky_ and _hairy_ when Rodney ‎was grabbing at his shoulders, quite painfully, really.‎

‎"I'm gonna—I have to—oh fuck fuck ohhh—" and then he bucked up once, and the ‎sharp viscous flood was spilling into John's mouth, into his mouth and out the sides, try ‎though he might to swallow it all down. He had never tried to swallow before, because ‎yech, why would you, but he wanted as much of Rodney's come as he could get, for ‎some cracked reason, and he swiped at his mouth with the poor abused blanket. He just ‎watched Rodney come down, watched his eyelids flutter, his hands spasm, his body ‎twitch through the last of the afterglow, and stroked his thigh as he descended to earth. ‎Before he was aware of it, or nearly ready, Rodney's eyes were on him, and for once – ‎for once, and why did it have to be this goddamn moment in particular? For once, ‎Rodney apparently found nothing to say, and they just watched each other.‎

And then Rodney's hand was stroking the side of his face in an absurdly gentle gesture, ‎just a thumb swiping his temple, and God, did he feel stupid, kneeling here on the carpet ‎between Rodney's knees. He opened his mouth to make some crack about it, but Rodney ‎seemed to think he had opened his mouth for a different reason, because he lunged ‎forward and kissed him.‎

Kissed him, and John froze, because, Christ. _Kissed_ him. Slow and lazy and sensuous, ‎like he was. . . like he didn't know what. Only, after a few seconds, he seemed to clue in ‎that John was not kissing him back, that he was stiff and unyielding and well, frankly, ‎horrorstruck at what Rodney was doing. Rodney pulled back and frowned at him.‎

‎"What?"‎

John turned his face aside. "That's just. . not something I'm comfortable with."‎

‎"Ah," he said, and it was the perfect inverse of his previous "oh." And then: "Well." He ‎pushed himself up from the sofa, easier now that John was sitting back on his haunches. ‎He pulled at the blanket in a sorry attempt to straighten it. "Okay." He nodded, like John ‎had said something, chewing on his lips. "Right. Get some sleep, then." And with that, he ‎was gone, no more than a retreating line of overly straight back through the doorway. ‎

John closed his eyes and swore viciously.‎

‎~‎

Unsurprisingly, Rodney had gone to the store when he woke up. There was even a helpful ‎note stuck on the kitchen counter next to the coffeemaker: _Gone to the store. Back soon_. ‎No time listed, though, and no whimsical flourishy _R_, like his notes over the past week ‎had had.‎

So John poured himself some coffee, appropriated the paper, and sat down to wait. After ‎a while he decided to go ahead and shower, and get dressed. There wasn't much to do or ‎anyplace he could go, really; Rodney had taken the car, which was a rental anyway. By ‎noon it was clear Rodney wasn't coming back anytime soon, and he began to get pissed ‎off. He had hoped to stop by the SGC today, and the day was rapidly slipping away. ‎Maybe he should just call a cab. ‎

And what the hell was Rondey's deal, anyway? Was he freaked out that they had fooled ‎around? Pissed about that part at the end, with the not-kissing? That was the height of ‎stupid, because it sure seemed to him that anyone who had just received a fairly ‎competent blowjob, all things considered, had not much of a leg to stand on when it came ‎to being pissed off. ‎

He played around some on Rodney's bookshelves, all carefully alphabetized, and a little ‎frightening – Heidegger nestled next to Thomas Harris, Pushkin canoodling with ‎Pynchon. He poked at the Russian books a little, then turned them upside down to see if ‎they looked any better that way. He wondered if he could teach himself Cyrillic by ‎deduction, got a piece of paper and a pencil from the kitchen, and began to make some ‎notes. His head hurt like a bitch after about an hour of that, and he would have turned on ‎the TV for some distraction, but Rodney had of course canceled his cable right before he ‎moved to another galaxy, so no luck there.‎

Finally he curled up on the sofa with Gravity's Rainbow, dozed off almost at once, and ‎woke ravenously hungry. He heated up the Chinese from the other night and sat down to ‎rifle through Rodney's CDs, some of which surprised him, some of which shocked him, ‎some of which made him spray his can of Coke across the room in laughter. He was deep ‎in the stack of CDs when he heard the door slam – considered scrambling to his feet, ‎thought better of it, and stretched out, carefully placing his grin to meet Rodney as he ‎came through the door.‎

‎"Joan Baez?"‎

Rodney stopped abruptly, like he hadn't really expected to see John, like he might have ‎forgotten he was there. He frowned down at him. "What about it?"‎

‎"It's just, you know, it seems to me you should tell me you're a lesbian _before_ I give you ‎the world's most spectacular blowjob, is all."‎

Rodney crossed his arms. "Well, I wouldn't say spectacular."‎

‎"What, so I still don't measure up to Ming?"‎

‎"Please. Aim a little lower than that, or you'll set yourself up for disappointment. Heather ‎Teague, she was my girlfriend from freshman year, she was pretty good."‎

John tossed the CD on the pile and let the grin slide to a smirk. "So I'm in Heather ‎Teague territory, is what you're saying."‎

Rodney came and sat on the floor beside him, looking at the wreckage of his living room. ‎‎"Leave you alone for half a day, and look at the place," he muttered.‎

‎"To quote a friend, bite me." He yawned and stretched out his feet, wiggling them in ‎their socks. "I'm bored as hell. What were you doing all this time?"‎

‎"Oh." His eyes flicked quickly aside. "I might have stopped by the SGC for a bit. I, uh, ‎didn't mean it to take this long."‎

‎"Really."‎

‎"Oh, hey!" he said, brightening. "I have an idea. Let's go mess with Elise's things. We ‎need to go pick up Maggie anyway. We could, um, reverse her sock and her underwear ‎drawer. Fill her toothpaste tubes with corn starch. Or, you know, with whatever happens ‎to be lying around the SGC labs."‎

‎"Speaking of, how are things back at the ranch?"‎

‎"Fine, fine." Rodney waved his hands. "The usual political crap going on, whatever. ‎Jackson wasn't there, and neither was Carter, just a bunch of new people I didn't know ‎and who, heh, obviously had not been fully briefed on minor, insignificant things like ‎how to handle priceless Ancient artifacts and technology."‎

‎"Well, I'm sure you set them straight."‎

‎"Hmm." Rodney tapped on his knee, seemingly at a loss. In the silence that followed ‎John began stacking the CDs into interesting architectural features. ‎

‎"So we have eight more days," he said.‎

‎"Um, yes, I think that's right. I didn't see any posted change to the Daedalus schedule ‎when I was—"‎

‎"Rodney." He quieted him with a hand on his knee. "We should think about how we ‎want to spend those eight days."‎

It turned out Rodney could, in certain circumstances, go perfectly still. After a bit he ‎said, "I think what you're suggesting is a phenomenally bad idea."‎

‎"No," he shook his head. "It's not. It's an unbelievably bad idea. It's the worst idea ‎anyone has ever had. It's a catastrophically bad idea." He let his hand move up Rodney's ‎thigh, and circled his thumb.‎

‎"Okay. Um. About that. We should – I mean, I'm kind of curious – when did you ‎become – that is, well, for lack of a better word, quite so, um, gay?" He squeaked a little ‎on the last word, and John felt something chilled and leaden seep into the hollows of his ‎lungs. So. It wasn't the not-kissing that had Rodney freaked out, so much as the other. ‎The guy thing. And if Rodney was freaked, that meant there would have to be talking. ‎And talking meant acknowledgement, talking meant the cold light of day. He removed ‎his hand.‎

‎"I'm _not_, you idiot. I just thought we could, you know, fool around."‎

‎"Fool around."‎

‎"Yeah."‎

‎"And this is something you've done before, am I right?"‎

He scratched at his chest. "Not. . . exactly like this, no." He took a breath. "Not with ‎anyone whose name I actually knew, for instance."‎

‎"Ah."‎

‎"What's that supposed to mean?"‎

‎"That was 'ah' as in, 'ah, I knew the Spice Channel had it right.'"‎

He took another, deeper breath, aligned his weapons systems, met Rodney's eyes, ‎deployed. "I'd really like to suck you again."‎

He could actually see the iris in Rodney's eyes puddle into black, and he almost imagined ‎he could see the blood draining his face to travel south. "Like I'm going to say no."‎

 

‎~‎

 

He woke in the middle of the night to a panicked disorientation, and a sense of falling. ‎He jerked awake, instantly on alert. ‎

‎"John?" There was a hand on his shoulder, and a quiet voice. Not such a heavy sleeper as ‎he had thought, then.‎

‎"'M all right." He settled back down into the cradle of his own arms, heart still pounding. ‎Maybe it was the wideness of the bed. After all those months on the narrow beds of ‎Atlantis, and the last week on Rodney's narrower couch, the bed was a bit too much. Too ‎much space. "They won't be fooled forever, you know." In the dark, it was easier to say.‎

Behind him, he could hear Rodney turn over and flop onto his back. "No, they won't."‎

‎"They're going to figure it out, sooner or later. That we're not gone, that Atlantis still ‎exists. They'll be back." He stared off into the pitch black.‎

‎"Oh, yeah."‎

‎"Talk about your ocean view, but you have to admit, it's pretty much the worst place in ‎the known universe to live."‎

He heard Rodney sigh. "If avoiding a probable and painful death is one of your priorities, ‎then sure, yeah. I would have thought you would love it, with your suicide-mission-lust."‎

‎"Stop it." He raised his head at that, and turned his bleary eyes to Rodney's outline in the ‎dark. "Not fucking funny. How many of those jokes do you get to make, anyway? It's ‎not like I wanted to go, you know."‎

The hand was upraised, and it landed on his shoulder again, more hesitantly this time. "I ‎know."‎

He burrowed his head into his arms again, his voice muffled. "It's not like I have a death ‎wish."‎

‎"No," Rodney said musingly. "I know you don't. Trust me, I would be the one to know."‎

John snorted. "Yeah, nothing wrong with your self-preservation instincts."‎

‎"Well, not these days," Rodney said into the dark, and in the silence that followed John ‎raised his head again.‎

‎"Fuck no," he said. "Tell me you never." He found Rodney's eyes in the dark, and was ‎pleased to see there was no pretense at misunderstanding. ‎

‎"I was much younger," was all he said. "I'm fine now. It was – you know, just a very bad ‎time, is all. I was – it was stupid. And anyway, it's over, and, you know, they found me ‎in time, pumped me out, whatever, so no harm done, really."‎

‎"Jesus!" There was panic skittering in John's chest now, and he edged up in the bed, ‎fingers digging into Rodney's shoulder. "You took _pills_?"‎

‎"Yes, and you took F-15s, so spare me."‎

There was no answer to be made to that one, so he subsided. They were both awake, both ‎quiet, lost in their own thoughts. "At least they paid me to fly the F-15s," he muttered at ‎last.‎

After a while he thought Rodney might be asleep. He raised his head to check and caught ‎the motion of a blink. "You're still awake."‎

‎"Apparently."‎

‎"You want me to go back to the sofa?"‎

‎"What? Why? Of course not, don't be a moron. You give your host some nice orgasms, ‎you get to share the actual bed."‎

‎"Makes sense. And since we're on the subject of orgasms—" he slid up and over, pressing ‎against Rodney's naked body. That part had kind of surprised him. He had kind of ‎thought, when they were done with the fooling around part, that they would at least slip ‎their boxers back on. But Rodney had moved to Naked Land and built a house there, and ‎he wasn't going to look like the prude. Plus, it had its advantages. "How about I give you ‎some more of them?"‎

‎"Um. . ."‎

‎"Um? Um, is what you're saying to me?"‎

‎"What I mean is, not that the blow jobs and all aren't fantastic, but. . ."‎

Now he was sitting all the way up. "But what?"‎

‎"Well, I'm guessing that may be the sum total of your man-on-man experience, am I ‎right?"‎

He scowled. "Sorry to be boring you, Jesus."‎

‎"No! God, no!" Rodney grabbed at his wrist. "I was just thinking about doing some. . . ‎other stuff, too."‎

‎"Other stuff?"‎

‎"I was wondering if you wanted to fuck me, for instance."‎

He swallowed and tried to speak at the same time, and ended up coughing in a very un-‎cool choking fit while Rodney slammed him on the back. "I'm fine," he said weakly. "I ‎told you, give a guy some warning. Do you just, I mean do you always open your mouth ‎and say whatever you're thinking? No no, don't answer that."‎

‎"You didn't answer the question."‎

‎"Hell yes, I want to fuck you," he growled, and crawled on top of him. Crawled on top ‎of him, like it was something he did every day, stretch himself naked on top of another ‎naked guy, but man, did this feel good. He could feel Rodney's awakening dick nudging ‎at his pretty much completely awake, _hello-did-someone-mention-fucking_ dick. Rodney's ‎arms curled around him and rested on his ass, which was also completely new, and it was ‎all really nice until Rodney dug his fingers in and pressed their dicks even closer together, ‎and then it shot from nice to _holy-shit-must-come-now_ in three seconds flat.‎

‎"This is good, too," Rodney said, his voice sounding strangled, and "Yeah," John ‎croaked, above him. Rodney was pushing up into him, making little thrusts, Rodney was ‎fucking himself against his dick. ‎

‎"Could be good this way – coming—unh, together," Rodney breathed, and his eyes were ‎wide and locked on John's, and John rocked into him, grinding their dicks together in a ‎way that should have been painful but really, really wasn't. Rodney jerked underneath ‎him. ‎

‎"God!"‎

‎"Hold still." He rocked into him some more, picking up a little speed. "You wanna do it ‎this way?"‎

‎"Yeah."‎

‎"I'm gonna come on you." ‎

‎"Yeah. I'm gonna—come on you too."‎

‎"Yeah. God." John dropped his head at that, burying it in Rodney's neck, and his hips ‎jerked and rocked and "Yeah, yeah, come on," Rodney was whispering in his ear, and ‎possibly more things, too, but that was the end of what he heard because of the roar of ‎blood in his ears as he came and came and came.‎

 

‎~‎

 

So basically, John got to spend his vacation in the 1950s: guy stuff during the day, lots of ‎sex for him at nights. There wasn't anything for him to do at the SGC, and there wasn't ‎anyplace he had to be. Once, when he got off the phone with his sister, Rodney asked ‎him (in what he must have imagined was a subtle way) if he wanted to call anybody, but ‎John had just shrugged and shaken his head. During the days, they watched movies ‎together, or played stupid games on Rodney's computer, or went shopping for some of ‎the more bizarre things on Rodney's ever-lengthening to-get list.‎

‎"Cocoa butter? For what, your stretch marks?"‎

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Cocoa butter happens to be an excellent base for sunscreen. Put ‎that back."‎

John fingered the bright plastic bottles on the shelf, occasionally opening one to sniff. ‎‎"People put a lot of strange shit on their bodies," he mused.‎

‎"Oh, please. We could have brought another naquadah generator through the stargate, but ‎no, it took two Marines to carry your hair products."‎

The gray-haired woman behind the counter in bath and hosiery gave them a curious ‎glance, and John elbowed Rodney, probably harder than he needed to. "Very smooth, ‎Agent 99."‎

Rodney rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure Mrs. Philbert there is a threat to national security. ‎Besides, I've been arguing for years that declassification of the program is the only way ‎to go. I mean, what, seriously, are they thinking, keeping this kind of information from ‎the public this long? Sure, it was fine when we were talking about some isolated teams ‎going offworld, and sure, there was the whole Goa'uld threat, I can see how you don't ‎want imminent planetary destruction at the hands of soul-sucking aliens to hit the pages ‎of Newsweek and start a panic, but at a certain point, when we're talking about a ‎permanent base in another galaxy –"‎

‎"Oh hey, look at this!" John broke in, frantic. "This says it contains glycerin, propylene ‎glycol, AND dimethicone! This is the one, for sure!" He plastered a manic grin on his face ‎and steered Rodney firmly away from the bath and beauty products. "What the fucking ‎hell," he ground out, digging his fingers into Rodney's arm to the point of what he hoped ‎was pain. "Are you _insane_?"‎

He snatched the cocoa butter. "You really need to get a handle on your tendency to over-‎react, Colonel. Oh, wow." He stopped dead in front of a markdown candy display. "Oh, ‎the purple ones, those are the best." He exhaled in a way that before this week, John ‎would have said were sex noises. Now, of course, he knew that the kind of noises ‎Rodney made in sex were low and guttural, not these high, breathy sounds at all, and ‎wasn't it just the icing on the cake that the very thought of that – of Rodney McKay's ‎sex noises – had him getting hard in the candy and seasonals at Walgreen's. Rodney was ‎busy throwing purple Peeps and Cadbury crème eggs into the cart he had commandeered ‎‎– hell, he was practically stuffing them under his jacket – and in further disturbing proof ‎that their minds were thinking exactly alike, he said in a distinctly carrying voice:‎

‎"Oh, hey! We should get some condoms!"‎

John closed his eyes and willed himself back in any number of life-threatening situations, ‎even the ones that involved nuclear explosions. The gum-chewing girl at the photo ‎counter looked up from flipping through her magazine to watch them in an idle, ‎interested way. ‎

‎"Later, McKay," he murmured.‎

‎"What? Why? We're here now. Unless you've changed your mind? About what we ‎talked about?"‎

‎"Could you lower your goddamn voice?"‎

‎"I will not lower my voice. You know, when the Nebraska comes out in you, it's really ‎unattractive. Now stop being so uptight and go pick us out some nice shiny rubbers. Oh, ‎and maybe some lube?" he called out to John's retreating back, which might have been ‎heading for either the pharmacy or the emergency exit.‎

 

‎~‎

 

He figured the video store was safe enough; McKay wanted to replenish his own movie ‎supply as well as rent stuff for them for the next few days, so John trailed after him as he ‎wandered through the wide fluorescent aisles at Blockbuster. McKay's ability to shop for ‎hours without flagging was, he supposed, unsurprising; he had never seen him do ‎anything by halves.‎

He flipped through the half-price bin up front – the usual assortment of John Hughes ‎movies, Steven Seagal flicks, and general unwatchables thrown in together. There were ‎some older movies, too, 50s and 60s stuff. His eyes brightened at the little clutch of ‎weird sci-fi, and was that—‎

‎"THX 1138?!" Rodney exclaimed over his shoulder, grabbing at it. "_This_ is in their half-‎price bin? My God, you're right, the public is too stupid for declassification, if this is ‎what they're rejecting. Give me that."‎

‎"Hey, back off, I saw it first, Mr. Greedy McGreedypants." Rodney's eyebrow arched at ‎him, and he shrugged. "It's, um, what my mother used to call me when—you know what, ‎never mind. Oh, man," he said. "Check this out. Breakfast at Tiffany's. Man oh man. ‎Audrey Hepburn in that black dress, with the thingie. . . we have to get this."‎

McKay was smirking at him. "And you were worried I was being gay in public." But ‎John was wrapped up in reading the movie jacket. ‎

‎"I really really love this movie," he said. "I'm looking forward to seeing it in English."‎

‎"Excuse me?"‎

‎"I was at this hospital in Germany, all they had was this one movie channel with old ‎American movies dubbed into German. Breakfast at Tiffany's almost twenty-four seven. ‎Come on," he said, tossing it in Rodney's handbasket. "You ready?"‎

They paid for their stuff and drove home in companionable silence, and Rodney didn't ‎speak until they were pulling into the driveway. "This hospital in Germany," he said ‎quietly. "It wouldn't happen to have been Landstuhl, by any chance?"‎

John looked out the window. "It was an operation over Khost that went bad, and I got ‎caught in the middle, went down in some land mines, along with some other guys. Mainly ‎just shrapnel and abrasions. We looked more messed up than we really were – well, most ‎of us. It wasn't a big deal."‎

‎"Uh-huh. Because they evacuate people who aren't critically wounded to Landstuhl all ‎the time," Rodney said, unbuckling his seat belt. And then: "Dubbed into German?"‎

‎"Yeah. I think I might have missed a couple of crucial plot points, what with not speaking ‎German and all. Do you speak German?" ‎

‎"Enough to know that puddle jumper, in German, is Pfützenhüpfer. Think about that next ‎time you decide to name something on your own, flyboy," he said as he clambered out. ‎‎"Come on, get that other bag behind you, make yourself useful."‎

‎"Sir, yes, sir," John sighed, but his heart wasn't in it enough to really bitch; he was just ‎grateful that Rodney, surprisingly, had the occasional gift for knowing when to let ‎something drop. ‎

They unloaded their purchases in the kitchen, and Rodney ticked off what they had ‎against the master list of what they had yet to buy, and John watched him for a minute, ‎bemused. Then he crossed the kitchen, gently took the shopping list out of Rodney's ‎hands and the pencil from out of his mouth, and pushed aside the mountain of cocoa ‎butter and purple Peeps.‎

‎"What? What are you—?"‎

And then he put his hands on either side of McKay's face, gripping him – because ‎damned if he was quite sure, on a guy, where the hands were supposed to go for this – ‎and lowered his lips to McKay's, which were already open with surprise. He had meant it ‎to be a soft closed-mouth kiss, but the fact of McKay's already open mouth made that ‎impossible, and with no difficulty at all he slipped his tongue inside, just for a quick ‎swipe, a taste. Rodney's tongue was there to meet his, pushing against him, practically ‎chewing at him in what he would have called horrible technique had it not been so damn ‎sexy his balls were already tightening. McKay tasted exactly like McKay, and he realized ‎with a jolt that beneath the toothpaste and whatever biochemically scouring mouthwash ‎McKay used, he could still taste himself, the faint scent of sex and come and skin. He ‎gave a little groan at that and leaned in further, shivering when Rodney's hand came up ‎to rest on the back of his neck. Rodney had the occasional gift for knowing where to put ‎his hands, too. ‎

He pulled back and rested his forehead on Rodney's, Athosian-style, and Rodney's ‎breath gusted his face when he spoke, his voice gone low the way John liked it.‎

‎"Careful," he said. "We might give ourselves the wrong idea."‎

John stroked a thumb on the side of his face, eyes still closed. "I think I'm done being ‎careful."‎

‎"That's what worries me." Rodney pulled John's mouth down and into his again, and for ‎long minutes there was nothing in the kitchen but the ticking of the oven clock and the ‎noise of lips-hands-mouth. Finally John pulled back, holding Rodney in place by the ‎shoulders, getting his breathing under control.‎

‎"What?"‎

‎"You know," he frowned. "People don't eat the purple ones for a _reason_."‎

 

‎~‎

 

They were getting pretty good at the climbing-on-top-of-each-other-until-they-came ‎thing, John thought. Sometimes they mixed it up with the roll-around-together-until-they-‎came thing. He didn't tell Rodney what happened inside his chest, though, when Rodney ‎got him pinned under his greater mass, when Rodney was lying on top of him, looking ‎down at him with those dark-fanned eyes that God, dismantled him. Because it felt good ‎in all the ways he suspected it shouldn't, being in bed with someone whose biceps were ‎broader than his own, whose shoulders shadowed and dwarfed his. It felt good to reach ‎up and grab those shoulders, dig his fingers in, feel those arms sliding around him, rough ‎and hungry. No, he suspected it said nothing good about him, that he felt those things, ‎that he liked them. It said nothing good about him that he didn't give a shit what it said ‎about him.‎

‎"Yeah," he said, when Rodney rolled them. ‎

‎"You like that."‎

‎"Yeah."‎

Rodney shifted, bringing their dicks into better alignment. "Don't come, okay?"‎

John raised his head. "Um. Okay."‎

Rodney slid off him and flopped beside him, but on his stomach. He turned his head and ‎met John's eyes. "I don't want you to come because I want you to come inside me."‎

John's throat constricted with want and something else, and he gathered the something ‎else must have been plain on his face, because Rodney was smirking at him. "You've ‎never done anything like this before, have you?"‎

‎"What? Of course I have. I've, you know, I've been pretty adventurous in bed, I'll have ‎you know. I've done all sorts of kinky stuff."‎

‎"Really." Rodney propped his head on his arm. "Name one."‎

‎"Well, I—" he narrowed his eyes at Rodney's smug expression. "Bondage."‎

Rodney rolled his eyes. "By which you mean, you once let a girlfriend tie your wrists to ‎the headboard with a necktie, right?"‎

‎"Hey. It was a lot kinkier than that."‎

‎"Oh?"‎

‎"Yeah. It was—the straps from my flight jacket. I don't actually own a tie."‎

‎"You're an animal."‎

‎"Yeah? Like what, like you're Hugh Hefner. It's not like you've done this before, either."‎

Rodney shrugged, or as near as he could propped on one arm. "Sure I have."‎

Just like that, all the moisture in John's mouth evaporated. "You have not."‎

‎"It's not like it's a big deal or something, though obviously you've just escaped from the ‎set of _Witness_, because you apparently think it is. And no, of course I haven't done it ‎with another guy, but evidently I've dated more imaginative women than Miss Flight ‎Jacket. What, you mean to tell me you've never even played around there at all? You ‎haven't—" he broke off, and his eyes lit up. "Yes, yes, okay, yeah, all right. Roll over."‎

‎"What? Why? I thought you were the one—"‎

‎"Just shut up and do it, okay? Look, just—" he raised a hand, dropped it. "Just trust me, ‎okay?"‎

John sighed and flipped over, rolling his eyes. His hard-on had deflated a little, so it ‎wasn't as uncomfortable as it might have been. He craned his neck enough to catch sight ‎of Rodney pulling down the blankets and crawling up between his legs.‎

‎"McKay, I don't mean to disappoint you here, but I'm not really sure this is my thing, ‎you know? I mean—"‎

‎"Shut up and trust me."‎

So he shut up for the moment, and pillowed his head on his arms as Rodney ran small ‎kisses up and down his back, then began kissing his tailbone, and his ass cheeks. He ‎sighed. Rodney's voice, when he spoke, was warm against his backside.‎

‎"You know you are the worst bisexual ever? In like, the history of the known universe?"‎

And that really did shut him up, because God. _Bisexual_? He blinked in shock, not finding ‎any sort of retort for that. And it might have been on the tip of his tongue to find one, but ‎at that exact moment the tip of Rodney's tongue began to flick along the part of his ass ‎cheeks, and he jumped. Rodney's steadying hand came down on his ass with unexpected ‎firmness, and in another embarrassing revelation, he felt himself harden at that. He ‎opened his mouth, this time definitely to say something, _what are you doing, hey hold on ‎there, if I'd known, I might have been more careful in the shower_, but his words became a ‎strangled gasp as Rodney's tongue dove deeper into his cleft.‎

‎"Oh—Rodney—what—"‎

Rodney's tongue was just going on a happy little journey up and down, and every time he ‎got closer to—to _there_, John instinctively flinched, clenching up. Rodney had stopped ‎talking, and that in itself was disturbing. But then again, Rodney's mouth was kind of ‎busy, because it oh oh oh. Something broad and warm and rough dragged itself across his ‎ass, no, across his ass_hole_, and the noise that came out of his own mouth could only have ‎been called a sob.‎

Jesus Christ.‎

The tongue licked and laved and swirled and hell, painted a picture, for all he knew, ‎flicking the rim of his asshole, teasing it, stroking it. Rodney McKay, tonguing his ‎asshole. It felt. . . it didn't even feel like it could be a tongue, it felt so good. It felt ‎impossible, only wet and wide and oh. He let himself push back into it, just a little, and in ‎response, the tongue dipped _inside_ him, only a little, but enough to break him. He cried ‎out, not caring what his voice sounded like.‎

‎"Jesus fuck—"‎

The steadying hand was back on his ass, and the tongue for the moment was gone. In its ‎place came something else, and it was a sign of how far unraveled he was that he didn't ‎get what it was for a minute, didn't get that Rodney was swirling a finger around his ‎asshole.‎

‎"It's good, isn't it," came Rodney's voice, husky, pressed against his ass cheek. "Some ‎people can come from this alone, just this much. I know I can." ‎

And something snapped loose in his gut at the thought of that, of it being Rodney ‎stretched out like this, reduced to this, Rodney coming on the mattress as he tongue-‎fucked Rodney's ass. The finger chose that moment to press just inside him, and he ‎jumped.‎

‎"Hold still."‎

He didn't even know what to say, didn't even know what to ask for. At that moment, the ‎whole normal locate-objective, achieve-objective dynamic of sex came apart, and he ‎wasn't even sure what it was Rodney was after. ‎

‎"Bear down."‎

He could feel the flush streak him from hair to toe, as it dawned on him what Rodney ‎was asking. But Rodney was saying it in that voice, the low intent one, and so he did, ‎and oh man. Oh man, Rodney's finger wriggled just a bit more in him, and fucking hell ‎did not _stop_ wriggling, just moved back and forth a little, and he couldn't take it ‎anymore. He cocked his leg up a little higher, pulled his knee underneath him to give his ‎dick a little more room, to get his hand under him.‎

‎"Come on John, fuck yourself. Fuck yourself and let me watch, yeah, come on."‎

And he was, he completely was. Forward a little, then back onto Rodney's hand-finger-‎whatever-it-is, forward into his own hand wrapped around his leaking dick. He was ‎finding a rhythm, catching it, holding it. Rodney's fingers – he thought it was fingers, but ‎he couldn't be sure, maybe it was still just the one – kept moving, and then they shifted, ‎pushing forward just a little, and—‎

‎"Ahh!"‎

‎"This is me fucking you," and it helped a little that Rodney's voice sounded as unstrung ‎as his own, quavering, even. "Can you feel me fucking your gorgeous ass, oh yeah John, ‎that's it yes—"‎

Electricity was sparking up and down his dick now, from _inside_ his dick, like something ‎inside him was on fire, so fucking fucking good, and oh Christ, he could see Rodney ‎jacking himself clumsily back there with his free hand, Rodney was going to come, and ‎the hand inside was pounding him now, pounding that electric spot behind his dick fast ‎and hard, and of a sudden something wet was there too. Something wet, and he knew it ‎was Rodney's tongue, that Rodney's tongue was curling around his hole even as he ‎finger-fucked him, and he broke.‎

‎"Ji—fu—agh—haaaa," he thought he might have been saying, and his head tucked ‎underneath him could see his dick spitting onto the sheets, could see Rodney's hand in ‎him. It ripped his orgasm in two, exploded it, that he could feel himself clenching around ‎Rodney's fingers, God, he had had no idea that was what happened, but it was like ‎coming from inside, if that made any sense, and he knew it didn't, knew none of this ‎made any sense, knew it even as he keeled forward, collapsed.‎

Behind him, he could feel Rodney's weight shift on the bed. There was a new and not-‎so-pleasant sensation in his ass now, as Rodney slowly twisted and slid his fingers out. ‎Watch it, he tried to say, but higher brain systems were definitely not back on line yet. ‎

‎"You okay?" Rodney's voice was not quite like any Rodney-voice he'd ever heard.‎

‎"Yeah," he managed. "My, erf, face broke my fall."‎

‎"Good to know," Rodney panted. "John, God, I have to come, I have to come now, ‎don't move."‎

He had no idea what Rodney wanted to do, but he knew exactly what he wanted. He ‎hitched himself up a little bit from his sprawl, reached two hands around him, and spread ‎his ass cheeks, spread his hole open for Rodney.‎

‎"Jesus, John," he whimpered, "Fuck—" There was a confused moment when John didn't ‎quite know what he was doing back there, because he was leaning forward a bit, grabbing ‎at one of John's hands, then the sheets, and then it hit him, and if he hadn't already ‎emptied his balls of come, he would have come right there, from Rodney using his come ‎to coat himself. He was so relaxed, so undone and reassembled that his body gave no ‎more than a grunt, an exhalation as Rodney's dick slid all the way up his ass. And man, ‎that should have hurt like a motherfucker, and probably if he hadn't been five seconds ‎post-orgasm he would have been clinging shrieking to the ceiling right now, but as it was, ‎he just let his head drop forward onto his hands and gave in to the motion of Rodney's ‎hips forward, forward, forward.‎

‎"Oh—can't—sorry," Rodney sobbed, and there was hot and wet spilling in his asshole, ‎he could actually _feel_ Rodney's dick jerking and pulsing in him, he could _feel_ Rodney ‎pumping him with come. His knees started to give a little, and they tumbled down ‎together, a sweaty messy come-y heap.‎

‎"Rodney," he tried, a few minutes later, or maybe an hour or so, who knew. "_Rod_ney."‎

‎"Mm?"‎

‎"It's—that's not feeling so good anymore."‎

‎"Oh, shit, sorry." He raised himself up on his hands, and John was alarmed to feel most ‎of his internal organs preparing to slide out with Rodney's dick. ‎

‎"Ah! Watch—"‎

‎"Sorry, God, okay, sorry—" Rodney landed to his side. The room was quieter than he ‎had ever known it.‎

‎"Oh my God. John."‎

‎"Mmm."‎

‎"John, I'm so fucking sorry, God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for that to happen, but ‎you—and I—oh, hell." He covered his face with his hands.‎

John tried to piece together what Rodney was freaking out about. "Hey. Rodney. Give ‎me something to go on, here. Is this—what's the matter?"‎

‎"What's the matter?" And there it was, there was the edge of hysteria that John knew. ‎This, at least, was familiar territory.‎

‎"We are so screwed, I can't believe I—"‎

‎"Hey." John poked him with a stern finger. "Don't talk to me about screwed."‎

Rodney dropped his hands at that, and gave him a wide incredulous look. John let his ‎face split into a grin.‎

‎"Oh, you—you're unbelievable, you know that? You're just—" Rodney rolled onto his ‎side, facing John, but John could see the laughter that he was busy flattening into a smirk. ‎‎"I cannot believe you said that." ‎

‎"Sure you can."‎

‎"John." A heavy, hesitant hand landed on his back. "I'm sorry. That isn't how I meant to ‎do that. In my head, it was going to be much—well, much suaver. A little less with the, ‎you know, the—" he waved his hand vaguely, approximating a motion John was glad not ‎to be able to decipher.‎

‎"Jesus, Rodney, could you lay off? You're making me feel like a girl here."‎

Rodney lay back down at that, and John watched him watching the ceiling. "No, you ‎don't," he said quietly. "You definitely don't feel like a girl."‎

‎"Ba-dum dum."‎

‎"Could you be serious for one moment here? I'm trying to say—I mean, we really ‎shouldn't have—I wasn't careful—"‎

‎"Rodney," he said into the mattress. "Stop it. I'm clean, I know for a fact you're clean, ‎the US military has been over us with a fine-tooth comb and we both know it. Can we ‎not agonize over that? Because this is not really how I want to spend what is possibly the ‎best afterglow of my life."‎

Rodney subsided. After a minute his hand wandered down to rest limply on the swell of ‎John's backside. "The best, really?" His voice was smaller and entirely more Rodney-like.‎

‎"Don't let it go to your head."‎

Rodney rolled again and scooted closer. He started doing something with John's ear that ‎would probably have to be called nuzzling. John turned his face to meet the lips that were ‎at the moment wrapped around his earlobe, but Rodney shied, ever so slightly.‎

‎"Hey. Thought we were over that."‎

‎"Well. Some people might have an issue with kissing at this point, considering where—"‎

‎"You have got to be so damn nuts," he said warmly into Rodney's neck, "if you think ‎that's something I care about right now. Shut up and come here."‎

This time, he got to do the hand-curled-around-the-back-of-the-neck thing, which was ‎nice, and he got to push Rodney down on the pillow and sink his mouth into him, which ‎was nice too. Rodney's hand was doing this slow up and down his back thing, and that ‎was even nicer. Rodney's tongue having been up his ass was just one more thing not to ‎care about, and frankly, John was having a little trouble keeping up with that list. ‎

 

‎~‎

 

Rodney and Carson got to handpick the new members of their expanded teams, but ‎John's team had been handed to him, a stack of personnel folders to peruse two days ‎before they left. Not that base commanders were usually deprived of all say in the matter, ‎but it was clear enough to John that no one had been expecting him to be base ‎commander. Those names had been chosen by someone else, in a room he hadn't been in. ‎The brass at the SGC had a bagful of little slights like that one for him. He wondered ‎who it had been, the general or colonel they'd been hoping to hand the command to; ‎Elizabeth wasn't about to let it slip, though doubtless she knew.‎

Other than Lorne, he'd never laid eyes on any of them, and he really wanted to be able to ‎match faces to names by the time they got back to Atlantis. So the Thursday before they ‎left, he rode in to Cheyenne Mountain with Rodney, and spent the day in a tiny metal ‎room with green plastic chairs, holed up with the files, making notes to himself. He ‎noticed that they had assigned a fair number of women, this time, and that made him roll ‎his eyes; stupid sexist brass, it was so typical of them – send the guys in first to secure the ‎place and make it safe for the little ladies. He entertained a brief but highly entertaining ‎fantasy of General Lard-Ass Landry going toe-to-toe with Teyla. _Now don't let me hurt ‎you, missie. . .‎_

For lunch, he had peanut M&amp;M's from the vending machine down the hall, chased with ‎Mountain Dew. He could have gone to the commissary, but he might have gotten roped ‎into conversations he didn't feel like having, about the Wraith, about the siege, about the ‎hard knot in his chest that was the loss of Ford. Maybe not, though; no one at the SGC ‎had shown a whole lot of inclination to chat him up, or really even to acknowledge his ‎existence. Which was fine by him; the place gave him the creeps, anyway.‎

By two o'clock, he was bored and ready to head back to Rodney's place. He called him ‎on his cell and grinned to hear the sigh of exasperation in his, "McKay here."‎

‎"McKay," he groaned. "I'm bored. Bust me outta here."‎

‎"Well, that's great for you, Major, but some of us have actual work to do, and actual ‎idiots to train, and actual morons who want to argue particle physics with me instead of ‎just accepting that, what do you know, turns out everything they thought they knew ‎about the way the universe is put together just flew out the window, and my God, the ‎idiocy. I mean, it's like they can't accept that my qualification for heading the science ‎division is not that I completed 8th grade biology. Not that biology is an apt example of a ‎real science, I'm just saying—"‎

‎"Breathe, McKay. And it's Colonel."‎

‎"What?"‎

‎"Never mind. Look, sounds like you're gonna be busy for a while. Why don't I just take a ‎car from the motor pool and head back? You come on when you're ready."‎

‎"Sure, fine, whatever, just—" and the line went dead. He smiled, wondering how many ‎new members of the science division were wishing they had run in the other direction ‎when the SGC recruiter first knocked on their cubicle doors.‎

As it turned out, he didn't end up taking a car from the motor pool. He couldn't find ‎anyone who could tell him where the sergeant in charge of the motor pool had gone, and ‎after he'd spent forty minutes chasing his last known co-ordinates around the SGC, he ‎was ready to throttle the man with his bare hands and beat him with a hubcap, for good ‎measure. On his way to his latest tip, supply room BX7, he barreled right into Colonel ‎Carter, one of the few members of SGC he did actually recognize, and who had seemed ‎friendly enough. She had no idea about the motor pool, of course, but when he explained ‎why he needed the car, she offered to drive him herself, and though he opened his mouth ‎to refuse – _no no don't bother, that's fine, don't worry about it_ – he found himself taking ‎her up on it, just for the chance to get the hell out of this place.‎

He didn't remember until they were in her car and driving back to town that this must be ‎Colonel Blonde Astrophysicist, the one Rodney had gone so dreamy about, whenever ‎anyone mentioned her. So in between making polite conversation, he checked her out, ‎and yeah, he could see Rodney's point.‎

‎"So," she said, as she turned off the highway. "You survived ten months of Rodney ‎McKay."‎

His smile was strained; it wasn't the first time he'd heard someone from the SGC say ‎McKay's name in that tone of voice. Probably the same tone they used to say "John ‎Sheppard."‎

‎"Yeah, I survived it," he agreed. "And I'm not sure I would have survived ten days ‎without him there."‎

‎"Oh? So McKay's been handy to have around?"‎

He thought of Rodney, wired and strung-out, staying up thirty-one hours to keep them ‎alive and the Wraith at bay; of Rodney, grabbing a Beretta and emptying it into anything ‎that twitched; Rodney, stepping through alien force fields, ducking poison spears, and ‎wiring naquadah filaments together with his teeth, if it meant keeping them alive five ‎hours, five minutes, five seconds longer. Of a sudden he really disliked this woman and ‎her smug, mildly sneering voice. He turned and looked out the window so he wouldn't be ‎tempted to unload on her. "Yeah, you might say that." ‎

Apparently she was more perceptive than he had given her credit for, because the smug ‎was gone from her voice when she spoke next. "Sorry," she said. "It's just – none of us ‎would have pegged Rodney McKay as someone who, well. . ." she trailed off tactfully.‎

‎"I think," John said stiffly, "that you and I probably know different people."‎

She didn't say anything for another block or so. "I think that's probably the case," she ‎said at last. "And I think that's probably my loss," she added, which made him instantly ‎rearrange his dislike. ‎

‎"Yes, it is."‎

She slowed as they neared the intersection. "I know what that's like, you know."‎

‎"Oh?" he said, though he wasn't quite sure what she was talking about.‎

‎"Going offworld, being part of a team like that. It. . . it changes the way you look at ‎people, sure, but it also changes you, changes them, the people around you. And that ‎bond, what you've been through together – no one else can really understand it, can come ‎close even. It's. . . well, it's closer than family."‎

‎"Yeah," was all he could think to say.‎

She looked at him curiously. "I'm glad it's like that, for the Atlantis team. You guys have ‎been through the wringer."‎

He snorted, thinking what a quaint way that was to put it, what had happened to all of ‎them. "That's an understatement."‎

‎"I just bet it is. We've all read the reports, of course, and the data you sent through, we ‎got all that, but that doesn't begin to tell us what it was like. Remind me, is it this ‎building, or the next one? I never can remember."‎

‎"Right up there. Just pull in," he said, and then it occurred to him, belatedly, that he ‎hadn't needed to give her any directions to McKay's place, and what that might say, but ‎she was already smiling.‎

‎"Ah, that's right, now I remember. Here we go. Rodney is the worst person ever about ‎owning a car – his always used to be in the shop, or he'd done something awful to it, ‎drove it into a storm drain or something. He was always calling me to give him a ride, ‎though that may have just been—" she broke off. "Well. I'm glad we got to spend a little ‎time together, Colonel."‎

‎"Yeah, me too," he answered, and meant it. He held out his hand. "I appreciate the ride, ‎Colonel."‎

‎"Don't mention it. And if I don't see you before you ship out, take care out there, all ‎right?"‎

‎"Sure thing," he said, slamming the car door shut behind him.‎

In the apartment, he dozed on the sofa, letting the cat use his chest as a pillow. He wasn't ‎usually one for napping in the day, but his nights had been kind of full of late, and he ‎wasn't surprised when he snapped awake to find the sun on its way down and the front ‎door clicking shut. "Hey," he said, groggily craning his neck up.‎

‎"Hey," Rodney replied, heading straight to the kitchen without a glance at him. John ‎deposited the cat on the floor and padded after him. ‎

‎"Bad day at the office, honey?"‎

‎"Oh, you know," Rodney said, riffling through the stack of papers he had been carrying. ‎‎"Let's just say my day didn't get any better. And um, speaking of that. We should ‎probably, that is, I think we should talk."‎

John leaned on the counter, still fuzzed with the heaviness of his nap, too tired to worry ‎about the tension in Rodney's voice. "I'm sorry, honey," he said. "I was going to clean ‎the house and have your drink all ready for you, but it just seemed like the day to have ‎that second Valium."‎

Rodney didn't look up, or even smile. Hell, he didn't look like he had even heard; he was ‎busy tapping his thumb against the edge of a manila envelope and looking anywhere but ‎at John. ‎

‎"Rodney? What's up?"‎

He did look up, then, and his mouth had that turn it got when things were bad, when the ‎shields were failing, when there were incoming Darts, when the clip had just fallen out of ‎his Beretta. John gave an inward smile; Rodney didn't know he knew about that, of ‎course, and he would never let on.‎

‎"Something happen at the SGC? Other than the idiots, I mean?"‎

‎"What? Oh. Um, no, nothing to do with—with work. It's just—" he ducked his head ‎again, and now John was starting to get worried. Rodney's hands came up, like he was ‎outlining a schematic. "Look. I'm not sure—" he stopped. "I didn't see a motor pool car ‎out front."‎

‎"Yeah, I ran into Colonel Carter, and she drove me. Nice lady. Said to give you her ‎regards. McKay, what's up? You look like hell." ‎

‎"Colonel Carter drove you here? _Sam_? Are you nuts?"‎

‎"Uh, well, I didn't ask her if she would be so kind as to drive me back to your apartment ‎so you and I could have lots of kinky gay sex, if that's what you're worried about. Jeez, ‎loosen up."‎

‎"But did you tell her why you were—" he waved his hands in front of him. "Forget it, ‎never mind, not important. Look." He took a breath, and John's frown deepened. "Look. ‎What I was trying to say was—I mean, I'm not sure—I don't think I can continue to do ‎this." His voice slowed on the last words in a way that left no room for ‎misunderstanding.‎

And yet, John did. For a minute, he actually did not know what McKay was talking ‎about. Continue. . . to work for the SGC? Continue to train the idiots? Continue to live in ‎Atlantis? And then, of course, his brain landed on the right one, but still, all he ended up ‎with was, "What?"‎

Rodney put his hands down. "I'm sorry. This is not something I can do. Apparently, it's ‎not. I'm really sorry." He licked his lips, shifted. "I—I thought I could, that this. . ." He ‎hung his head. "I want to be Mr. Cool-With-It, I really really do, I want to be what, what ‎you clearly need me to be, I want for this not to be bothering me, but it is, and it does, ‎and I, I, I think we made a mistake, is all. I'm sorry."‎

‎"You're—what?"‎

This time, Rodney did not reply; he just stood there and let the words sink in, let them ‎work. He cocked his head at the kitchen faucet as though it might be about to say ‎something, and John had an absurd desire to turn and look, too. Then he realized that of ‎course, Rodney was just trying to avoid looking at him, and that was the moment he ‎actually got it.‎

‎"I think it would be best if you went to a hotel." He stuck his hand in the manila envelope ‎he had been worrying, and pulled out a silver key with a large blue plastic tag attached. ‎The tag read Holiday Inn. "I'm sorry," he said again. "This is just more than I can deal ‎with. You're right to be really quite angry with me, I completely understand that, I do, ‎you're right. It's just. . . I just can't," he finished, dejectedly, and put the key with its tag ‎on the counter. "I got you a room at the Holiday Inn, though, and it's, um, it's really quite ‎nice, their. . . the pool is heated and everything."‎

John just blinked at him. Heated pool? He squinted at Rodney like he had a hard time ‎seeing him, like there was a fog or something, like he couldn't quite make out what it was ‎he was supposed to be seeing. Except, of course, he did see it.‎

He stepped forward and picked up the key with its big blue plastic tag. He stepped to the ‎sink and dropped it down the gaping black drain. He reached over and flipped the switch ‎on the disposal and let the metal and plastic shred the rotors, let the awful grind and roar ‎fill the kitchen. He didn't bother to flip off the switch. And then he walked out and ‎began gathering his things.‎

 

‎~‎

He ended up at the LaQuinta over on Geyser, partly because that was the only one he ‎knew, and partly because it wasn't too far from the SGC. Rodney had stayed in the ‎kitchen while he had stashed things in his duffel, and then he had called the cab company ‎and waited out front. If it wasn't so pathetic, it might have been laughable. ‎

At the hotel, he lay back on the scratchy nylon bedspread and stared at the ceiling. There ‎were a number of things he could do: throw up, go for a run, curl into a ball, get drunk, ‎jerk off, order a movie. If he budgeted his time, he might even be able to do them all. ‎They would all require some effort, though, and that was just the thing he didn't have to ‎give. He was empty, utterly hollow. ‎

‎"Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard," he said to the sprinkler attachment on the ceiling. ‎‎"Fighter pilot." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Intergalactic base commander. ‎Teenage girl." The sprinkler did not reply. "Film at eleven."‎

After about an hour of that, he decided to unpack. It was military reflex, and he found, ‎as he often had before, that the mindless action the military could instill—the ability to ‎keep moving when there was nothing inside of you—was a comforting thing. He folded ‎his three clean shirts and put them in the bottom right drawer of the crappy dresser. He ‎rolled his socks and put them in the top right drawer. He laid the contents of his dop kit ‎on the bathroom counter in neat symmetry, then scrambled them and re-ordered them ‎alphabetically by product name. It was when he was shaking out his dirty clothes, prior to ‎carefully folding them, too, so as to take up less room in the cavernous drawers, that the ‎card fluttered out.‎

‎~‎

Charles, it turned out, was an all right guy.‎

‎"I'm in graphic design, but that's just to pay the bills," he said, when John asked him ‎what he did for a living. "What I actually want to do is design gaming software. I've got ‎some programs already completed, I've been shopping them around now – got some ‎pretty good nibbles, so who knows. How about yourself?"‎

‎"Oh, I'm—" he had been all poised for a lie, then thought, what the hell. Like it made a ‎difference. "I'm in the Air Force."‎

Charles choked into his beer at that one. "Really? That's – gosh, that's pretty surprising."‎

John cocked a brow at him.‎

‎"Surprising because most military guys I know are assholes, and you really don't seem ‎like you are."‎

‎"Oh, wait till you know me better."‎

‎"I'm looking forward to that," he said, and as he leaned back to call for the tab, his ankle ‎brushed John's foot, and he thought, well here we go then.‎

‎~‎

Fucking Charles was not terribly difficult, if not terribly arousing, either. There were some ‎parts he could have done without; Charles, it turned out, was a grunter, and John found ‎himself wondering how women put up with it, all those male sex noises. Also, John liked ‎to think of himself as a pretty fit guy, pretty buff, all things considering, but Charles was ‎a whole other level of buff, and yeah, that was a bit intimidating. ‎

But he got through it okay, and even went with the kissing, which was okay. For a while ‎there, he wasn't sure he would be able to come, and that was okay, too – Charles was ‎apparently impressed by his stamina, and just kept driving him on, encouraging him, ‎grunting ridiculous things. _This would go a lot faster if you would just shut the hell up_, he ‎had the urge to grab his face and say, but he didn't, of course. Instead, he closed his eyes ‎and lost himself in an elaborate fantasy involving a naked Elizabeth and a DHD console. ‎Her breasts were warm underneath his hands, just filling them, her heels hard against his ‎ass as he slid into her sweet wet clench; come on John, yeah yeah that's it yeah, this is ‎what I've been waiting for. He switched to Teyla for a while, because that one with Teyla ‎and the sticks had always worked well, but it was back to Elizabeth for the home stretch, ‎and he came with a sputter and a groan that finally, finally drowned out Charles's.‎

‎"Oh, that was incredible," Charles said while John rolled the condom down his still-‎twitching dick and tied it off. "You're amazing."‎

‎"Yeah. That was. . . that was something else."‎

‎"You know." Charles rolled over and propped himself on his side, and all John could ‎think was, hell, he's a talker. "I thought there had to be some mistake, that night in the ‎bar."‎

He froze. "Mistake?"‎

‎"I mean, guys like you? You just didn't exactly ping my gaydar. I thought for sure you ‎had to be straight."‎

‎"Oh," John said, absurdly gratified. "Well, I'm." He tried out the word. "I'm bi."‎

‎"Yeah, I kinda figured that," Charles said, and there was a wry note in his voice that ‎made John think, hell, in another time and place, he might have even liked Charles.‎

‎"Not such a homebody after all?" was all Charles had said when he had called him up, ‎and John had laughed grimly. Not tonight, he had replied, and Charles had been kind ‎enough – or eager to get laid enough – that he hadn't brought the subject up again. ‎

‎~‎

He hadn't meant to stay the night at Charles's admittedly quite nice apartment, but here ‎again, he was unsure of the etiquette. Was he expected to get dressed and quietly show ‎himself out? But almost immediately after sex, Charles had rolled over and done a human ‎log imitation, one arm thrown across John, which, okay, was weird, but better than being ‎ignored entirely, he guessed. He sat there in the bed for a while, thinking how really, ‎what he wanted to do was call up every woman he had ever dated – everyone he had ‎ever taken out to dinner and taken home for sex afterwards – and apologize.‎

The quiet of the darkened apartment was unbearable. In the quiet and the stillness, ‎thoughts were possible, and thinking was what he could not afford. Thinking might cause ‎the slow bleed in his intestines to turn into something worse. Anger – if he could just ‎locate some anger, that would be good. Because, what the hell? What the hell had ‎happened in Rodney's head, that he had thought – God, the humiliation of it. ‎

There was a lot to be pissed about, he could see that, objectively. He just couldn't seem to ‎generate any of it. He couldn't seem to generate any emotion, and that worried him. That ‎had happened to him once or twice before, in combat situations, but massive blood loss ‎had tended to be happening at the same time. Well, he thought, rolling over and giving ‎up. Maybe this wasn't so different after all.‎

‎~‎

Charles, thank God, was an early riser, and had no problem swinging John back by his ‎hotel at 6:30 the next morning. He was angling for more time together, John could see ‎that, but all it took was a little adjustment of the truth – sorry, shipping out later today, ‎I'll call when I'm back in town – for him to drop it. It wasn't so far from the truth, either, ‎since he had just the one more night. But he really needed some more time with those ‎files at the SGC, and there was some last minute equipment check to do, and right now ‎he just wanted to throw himself back into being Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard, and forget ‎that John had ever existed.‎

He extended his hand as Charles pulled into the parking lot. "Listen," he said. "I had a ‎great time."‎

Charles gave a slow, tentative smile. "It was great, John. Really great." And then he ‎leaned in like maybe he was going for a kiss, and John pulled back quickly. ‎

‎"Okay, so, thanks for the ride," he said hastily, and made it out the door and a couple of ‎feet towards the building before he saw Rodney, who was white and still and leaning ‎against his car with his arms crossed, doing nothing but watching him.‎

John kept his walk steady and his eyes forward. "McKay," he said. "What the hell are ‎you doing here?"‎

Rodney didn't answer at once, but John could see his throat working. He turned abruptly, ‎and John thought he was just going to get back in his car and drive away, but he didn't. ‎He just stood there, bracing his hands on his car, his head down, like he might be trying ‎to breathe.‎

‎"You didn't answer your cell, and I've left God knows how many messages," he said. ‎His voice was small and hard, compressed somehow. "Do you have any idea how many ‎hotels in the area I had to call before I found the right one? Do you? And then God ‎forbid they give me your room number, no, I have to come down here and flash every ‎government ID I have to get even _that_ much out of the little power-tripping pimple-faced ‎desk clerk, who, you know, barely had time to spare to do his fucking _job_ what with ‎running the League of Aryan Bellhops meeting, and then I pounded on your door for half ‎an hour and the nice Korean drug dealers in 217 were really not very understanding, I ‎have to say." He pushed off from the car and turned to face him again, and Charles began ‎to pull out of the parking lot, moving a bit slowly—watching in his rearview mirror, no ‎doubt. John tightened his jaw. The urge to run Rodney over with something heavy had ‎never been stronger in his life. Rodney spared a glance for the retreating tail-lights. "And ‎please, that is the most ridiculous car I have ever seen. Is he trying to advertise his ‎inadequate penis size?"‎

‎"Was there something you wanted?"‎

‎"There's been a change in the Daedalus schedule, which you would know if you had kept ‎your cell with you the way you're supposed to. We ship out today at 1400."‎

‎"1400? What happened to tomorrow at 1700?"‎

He sighed elaborately and rolled his eyes. "Call the SGC yourself if you're so curious. I ‎have better things to do, you know," Rodney said, as he turned and wrenched his car ‎door open. ‎

‎"Evidently not, if you're tracking me down here to hand-deliver messages. Now get out ‎of my way, I have to go shower." ‎

‎"I should think so." He ran a glance down John, who was uncomfortably aware he was ‎taking in everything from yesterday's clothes to the beard-burn on the side of his face. ‎The corner of Rodney's mouth veered into a vicious slant. "He's trying to catch you flat-‎footed, don't you get it?"‎

‎"What? What the hell are you talking about, you don't even know—"‎

‎"_Caldwell_, you idiot, can you not keep up? It's Caldwell, all right? And he's not going to ‎miss an opportunity to make you look bad."‎

‎"Well I guess I don't have to worry about Caldwell, because I've got Rodney McKay to ‎watch my back, don't I? Gee, thanks for looking out for me, you're a sweet guy, ‎McKay."‎

‎"Shut up, will you shut up? You have no idea what he—"‎

‎"No, I don't, I don't know Caldwell at all, but you know? I think I'll make my own ‎assessment, if you don't mind, and I don't think I'll be relying on your razor-sharp ‎powers of perception. And what, you're looking out for me now?"‎

‎"Yes! Yes, you complete moron, I am looking out for you because you are obviously too ‎stupid to do it yourself! Look, they wanted Caldwell, all right? The command was ‎supposed to go to Caldwell, and it didn't, and he's pissed, and all it would take – I mean ‎Christ, John, he's going to go shopping for reasons to get you sent back to Earth, he will ‎use anything, absolutely anything to make you look bad to the SGC, no matter how petty, ‎he won't care if it's true, he won't care—"‎

‎"I can look out for myself, goddamnit!" ‎

‎"Yeah? What, so you can turn your career into one more suicide run? I am not going to let ‎that happen, not if I can help it, why do you think I—" He broke off and became ‎fascinated by the puddle by his tire. His fist clenched and unclenched his car keys, and he ‎began to chew on his lip. "Why do you think I ran all over this stupid city last night, why ‎do you think I told you—" he waved his hand, turned it into a cradling of his forehead.‎

‎"Oh. Oh, I see. So it's your concern for my career that prompted you to be an asshole to ‎me."‎

‎"Yes! And if you weren't such a pigheaded self-involved moron, you would see that. ‎John." He raised his head and met John's eyes for the first time. "John." His voice was ‎the voice John knew again, the voice that was for his ears, the voice that almost unraveled ‎him. "You had to have known we couldn't do this. For a while I thought, okay, maybe ‎yes, maybe we could sneak around, whatever, but when I found out about Caldwell, ‎when I heard the kind of shit he was capable of, no way was I going to let you risk that."‎

‎"Oh what, so this was you being _noble_?"‎

‎"Yes, this was me being noble, damn it! John, listen to me, listen to me, please. Can you ‎honestly tell me, if I had said we had to quit, that we were done, no more, after this week ‎it was over, that you would have gone along with that?"‎

John spread his arms wide. "Uh, yes?"‎

Rodney twitched, frowned. "Yes?"‎

‎"Yes! Jesus Christ, McKay, do you really think I'm that big an idiot? Not that this hasn't ‎been great, not that I don't think you're terrific and all, but what, did you really think I ‎had it in mind that we were going to go skipping hand-in-hand through the halls of ‎Atlantis or something? I'm military, you know that! How brain-damaged do you think I ‎am, you seriously think I'm going to give up my career for the possibility of getting ‎occasionally horizontal with Rodney McKay?"‎

In the silence that followed, he heard how loud he had been shouting, and swiped a hand ‎over his face. He took a breath to dial it back down, opened his mouth to finish, and ‎found that he had. He couldn't think of anything more to say.‎

‎"Oh." Rodney blinked at him. "Oh," he said again.‎

‎"Yeah, oh."‎

There didn't seem to be anyplace left to go after that. ‎

‎"Well, aren't I just the stupid one," Rodney said lightly. John frowned.‎

‎"Listen, I gotta shower and throw my stuff together. If you want to get some breakfast—‎‎"‎

‎"No no no, that's fine, that's right, I have to. . ." He waved his hand loosely. "I'd better ‎get busy, too. I'll um. . ."‎

‎"I'll see you back at the SGC, then."‎

‎"Yeah, yeah, that's. . . yeah, okay." He looked around the parking lot like he might have ‎forgotten where he was, then ducked into his car. He raised his hand in nervous farewell ‎salute, and John watched him fumble with the seatbelt. The sight irritated him ‎unbearably. He stepped forward, tapped on the glass, and waited for Rodney to roll the ‎window down.‎

‎"Yeah? What?"‎

‎"So you and this being noble thing." John glanced at his watch, managed a smirk. "That ‎lasted a whole, what, fourteen hours. That's quite a reach, for you." He patted the car. ‎‎"Hope you didn't pull something."‎

Rodney's eyes narrowed. "Fuck you, Major."‎

John straightened back up. "Fuck you, _Colonel_," he said, and this time the smirk was ‎genuine. It settled on his face and carried him all the way back up to his room. He ‎stepped in and dialed the shower to scalding. He couldn't feel it through his clothes ‎anyway. ‎

‎~‎

It was such a rush, saving the universe with Rodney, that he almost forgot they were ‎anything other than what they had always been. ‎

Amazing, how easy it had been to shove all that aside, and do what had to be done, and ‎somewhere in the middle of one of those nine million frantic re-boots of the Daedalus, his ‎brain said _yeah, yeah, think about all that later, save the world now_, and they had. When ‎he had been beamed back to the bridge at what he later discovered was about the last ‎possible second, it had seemed natural to look for Rodney first, to measure his own relief ‎by Rodney's. Just like always, just like before. When the klaxon had sounded in that ‎hangar bay, when the bay doors had opened, it had seemed natural to turn to Rodney, to ‎find his eyes that said nothing but _oh shit we're dead why aren't we dead_. And when they ‎had flown together, in that wild gut-twisting race to the sun, it had been the most natural ‎thing in the world for it to be Rodney with him, all that whining and bitching his own ‎personal Greek chorus, and that it had not in fact ended in tragedy was just another of ‎those _holy shit I don't believe it_ moments, and he had wanted to laugh with the sheer joy ‎of it.‎

‎"Oh my God, this is going to be just like when Luke and Han climbed out of the X-wing, ‎isn't it, oh my God, everyone's going to go nuts," Rodney babbled as they slid, smooth as ‎silk, into the hangar. The hangar which turned out to be empty, and John smiled as he ‎helped Rodney out. ‎

‎"Sorry, Luke, guess they must not have gotten your memo," he said, looking around.‎

‎"Huh. Yes, well, hail the conquering heroes. I guess they must be pretty busy, probably ‎planning the big festal celebration for later. Must be saving it up." He slipped a little on ‎the wing, and John automatically reached a hand to steady him.‎

‎"Yeah, I'm sure they're out hiring the Ewoks right now."‎

‎"Ewoks? Ewoks weren't even in that one! You can't even keep the Original Trilogy ‎straight, can you—how did they ever let you take an M.S. in anything? And who says ‎you get to be Han, anyway?"‎

‎"Oh, I'm definitely Han," John grinned, unfastening his helmet. He clapped Rodney on ‎the back. "Come on, kid. Your adoring throng is waiting for you."‎

‎"Fine, but no way am I kissing my sister," Rodney muttered, and just like that, they were ‎back.‎

‎~‎

Back in Atlantis, if he was careful, it was almost enough.‎

If he never stood too close to Rodney, in briefings, or in the control room, or out in the ‎field. If he made sure he had a smirk, or a grin, or a wry remark in place before he turned ‎to Rodney. If he always had a perfectly good, Colonel-business type reason for missing ‎movie night, or poker night, or Space Droids night. If he never glanced in Rodney's ‎direction for a quick roll of the eyes, or a shared shake of the head, or a quirk of the brow. ‎If he was sure to put three feet between them at all times, to avoid being knocked by a ‎stray arm or wrist or God forbid fingers. If he was careful.‎

One day, if he kept at it, "careful" might turn into something he didn't have to think ‎about anymore, and one day, "almost enough" might become good enough. ‎

Or, it could happen another way. ‎

It could happen that one day, he would be done with careful again. One day, he might ‎look up at just the wrong time, and meet Rodney's eyes in just the wrong way, and he ‎might see the same thing in Rodney's eyes, the thing he didn't want to see, the thing they ‎never talked about. He might see that Rodney wasn't being careful back, the way he was ‎supposed to. And then it wouldn't matter who else was in the room, or what they were ‎supposed to be doing. Because then he would just say, _screw it, fuck it all to hell_, and he ‎would cross the careful three feet between them and just climb inside Rodney. Just ‎fucking climb inside him.‎

The days he thought about that were the days he was especially careful.‎


End file.
